Chapter 34

It was a large room, with desks and benches on either side, and an aisle, as Reginald called it, up the middle. It had four large windows looking out on the playground, and a fireplace at each end, round which some dozen or two of boys were clustered.

Reginald advanced toward the fireplace at the lower end of the room, hoping that some one might speak to him and rid him of the strange, uncomfortable feeling that crept over him; but none of the boys spoke, though they regarded him critically, as if measuring the sort of being he was before committing themselves to any closer acquaintance.

So he sat down on a bench halfway down the school-room, tried to look unconscious, and half wished himself at home again.

"Have any of you fellows got a knife? I want to cut this piece of string," said a tall boy, addressing the group generally.

In a moment Reginald had taken out his new knife and offered it to the speaker.

"Ah!" said Thompson, the tall boy; "a capital knife. Much obliged; will borrow it for the present;" and after using it he quietly put it into his pocket.

Some of the boys laughed. One of them, however, murmured, in an undertone, "What a great shame!"

Reginald's color rose. He walked straight up to Thompson:

"Will you please to give me my knife again?"

Thompson looked surprised:

"No; I shall please to do nothing of the kind. You offered it, and I accepted it. An offer's an offer."

"I lent it to you to cut the string."

"You did not say so."

"I do not think it just of you to take my knife in that way," said Reginald, thoroughly aroused; "and if you do not return it at once, I shall speak to Dr. Field about it."

"Oh!" said Thompson, coolly; "you're a sneak, are you?"

The boys, who had been gathering round Reginald, admiring his spirit in confronting the tall boy, now drew back, and the words "tell-tale!" "blab!" "sneak!" were distinctly heard. And Reginald found himself standing alone, deserted by those who had drawn near in sympathy with him, for Thompson was the tyrant of the school.

Presently, when the boys had returned to their places by the fire, and Reginald was apparently forgotten, a merry-looking boy a year older than himself sat down by him.

"No," said he; "you must not say anything to Dr. Field. You must let your knife go, and learn wisdom for the future."

Reginald looked up.

"It's mean and unfair," he said.

"That may be, but the boys would say it was meaner still to complain. One has to put up with things of this sort at school, and make the best of them."

"What's your name?" asked Reginald, suddenly, for there was something about the boy that he liked, and he thought this might be the one who was to be his friend.

"Barton. And yours?"

"Reginald Murray."

"Murray's enough, without the other."

"I should like you to be my friend."

Barton glanced at the large dark eyes that were fixed upon him, and at the delicate and somewhat mournful face, and felt attracted also.

"I think I shall like you," he returned; "but I must wait and see how you go on. I think you've the right spirit; but you must take my advice about the knife. Will you?"

There was a struggle in Reginald's mind. It was very hard to give up the knife that Alice had saved up her pocket-money to buy for him. Still, Barton had been at school for some time, and knew better than he what ought to be done, so he answered, "I will."

But Barton was not prepared for his manner of carrying out the decision. To his great surprise, Reginald marched straight up to Thompson. "I shall not," he said, "speak to Dr. Field about the knife. It's unfair and unjust of you to take it, and I sha'n't be friends with you as long as you keep it. But Barton says it would be telling tales if I made a complaint."

Some of the younger boys stood quite aghast at Reginald's boldness; one or two even murmured, "Well done!"

Thompson stared, half in astonishment, half in anger. "You're too fast, young sir; you'll have to be put down, I see," said he. But he did not give Reginald his knife again.

School was indeed a new world to Reginald. He made friends and found enemies; he worked hard--indeed, often sat up by candle-light to prepare examples for the next day. He played well, and on the whole was tolerably popular. Thompson, however, still kept the knife, using it upon all occasions, which caused a thrill of indignation to go through Reginald's delicate frame.

"If I can't get it one way, I will another," thought he; and he brooded over the knife until he magnified every word that Thompson said into a series of insults to himself, and Thompson, pleased with the power he possessed over the boy, exercised it on all occasions.

So the spring went by, and the summer came, and the days slipped away, and the holidays were close at hand.

"If I were strong enough, I would fight him for it," said Reginald to Barton, one day, when Thompson had been more than usually aggravating.

The remark was repeated to Thompson, who was standing by the side of the river that ran at the foot of the playground.

At that moment Reginald drew near.

"So you would like to fight me if you were big enough?" said he, with a sneer.

"I should!" answered Reginald, warmly.

"Ah! it's a bad state of feeling. If the knife causes such wicked thoughts, the best way is to get rid of it. So here it goes, and there is an end of it!" And drawing the knife from his pocket, he flung it into the river. It fell short of where he intended, and Reginald saw his beloved knife through the clear river, lying within what he supposed to be an easy reach. Without a moment's thought he jumped in after it, regardless of the cry that rose, "The water's deeper than it looks!"

His hand had, as if by instinct, grasped the knife, but as he tried to struggle back through the swiftly-running water he got confused, for, as the boys had called out to him, it was a great deal deeper than it looked, and just there the ground shelved suddenly, and Reginald, taking a false step, lost his footing.

There was a general outcry, which brought Dr. Field and a visitor who had just arrived to the spot:

"Murray's in the river!"

And they pointed to the spot where the poor boy had sunk.

With such a cry as the boys long remembered, the visitor had plunged into the water, and had caught the boy, who had risen for the last time, by the arm.

And the next thing that the boys knew was that a white, dripping form was carried through the playground into the house.

Then a whisper went round, "It was his father."

Then a whispered question, "Is he dead?"

And Thompson shuddered as he heard it.

But Reginald did not die; he opened his eyes to find his father clasping his hand. At first he could remember nothing, then he looked round anxiously: "Is the knife safe? I went to pick up my knife."

Then he closed his eyes and remained for a long time silent; and when he spoke again, it was in the wild ravings of delirium.

The shock had been too much for the delicate boy. Fever came on, and it was weeks before he could be moved home. And then he was ordered to the South, and Italy was the chosen place in which Mr. and Mrs. Murray and their two children should sojourn until Reginald should have completely recovered his health.

And this time Rover was to go with his young master.

The day before Reginald left home a carriage drove up to the door, and Thompson stepped out of it.

He and Reginald were alone for a quarter of an hour, and they parted friends.

"I have my knife now, Thompson," said Reginald, "and so the quarrel is over."

And Thompson returned to Dr. Field's a better and a wiser boy. He never bullied any one again.

[Decoration]

CLEOPATRA.

We've called our young puss Cleopatra; 'Twas grandpa who named her like that. He says it means "fond of good living"-- A queer enough name for a cat!

She leads the most lovely existence, And one which appears to enchant; Asleep in the sun like a snow-flake That tries to get melted and can't;

Or now and then languidly strolling Through plots of the garden, to steal On innocent grasshoppers, crunching Her cruel and murderous meal!

Or lapping from out of her saucer-- The dainty and delicate elf!-- With appetite spoiled in the garden, New milk that's as white as herself.

Dear, dear! could we only change places, This do-nothing pussy and I, You'd think it hard work, Cleopatra, To live, as the moments went by.

Ah! how would you relish, I wonder, To sit in a school-room for hours? You'd find it less pleasant, I fancy, Than murdering bugs in the flowers.

EDGAR FAWCETT.

DECLAMATION.

SHAKSPEARE.

She sat in her eternal house, The sovereign mother of mankind; Before her was the peopled world, The hollow night behind.

"Below my feet the thunders break, Above my head the stars rejoice; But man, although he babbles much, Has never found a voice.

"Ten thousand years have come and gone, And not an hour of any day But he has dumbly looked to me The things he could not say.

"It shall be so no more," she said; And then, revolving in her mind, She thought, "I will create a child Shall speak for all his kind."

It was the spring-time of the year, And, lo! where Avon's waters flow, The child, her darling, came on earth Three hundred years ago.

There was no portent in the sky, No cry, like Pan's, along the seas, Nor hovered round his baby mouth The swarm of classic bees.

What other children were he was; If more, 'twas not to mortal ken; The being likest to mankind Made him the man of men.

Before he came, his like was not, Nor left he heirs to share his powers. The mighty mother sent him here To be her voice and ours;

To be her oracle to man; To be what man may be to her; Between the Maker and the made The best interpreter.

RICHARD H. STODDARD.

SMILES AND TEARS.

Both sword and guns are strong, no doubt, And so are tongue and pen, And so are sheaves of good bank-notes, To sway the souls of men; But guns and swords, and gold and thought, Though mighty in their sphere, Are often poorer than a smile, And weaker than a tear.

NICOLO'S LITTLE FRIEND.

"Nicolo, Nicolo, where are you? Where have you hidden yourself? Come here; I want you."

It was a very bright-eyed little girl who spoke these words--under a bright sky, too--the sunny sky of Italy.

But Nicolo, a boy some years older than herself, looked far from bright or happy; he was lying full length on the ground in the sunlight; but his face was overcast and melancholy.

"Lazy fellow!" said little Gianetta, laughingly, as she came up to him; "I am out of breath calling to you. Come along; I want you. Mother has done with me, and we can make some music together."

But Nicolo shook his head, though he smiled at his little friend.

"What is it?" asked Gianetta. "Why can't you come? Is it the father again?"

Nicolo sighed. He was a cheerful, happy-tempered boy by nature. And yet Gianetta often found him looking very sad.

"Tiresome, bad man!" broke forth the little girl. "He has been scolding you again; but no. Stop; I will say no wicked things of him, for he is your father; and we must honor our parents, be they bad or good, Father Clement says. But tell me, Nicolo, what has he said or done?"

"It is nothing," said Nicolo, rousing himself at length--"nothing, my little Gianetta; but it wearies me. It is the old tale; he likes not my music--thinks it an excuse for idleness. Listen, little one. I make my plans now. I cannot bear this life. I must do as he wishes--learn a trade or somewhat, and give up my violin."

"That you never shall do," said Gianetta, earnestly. "You think me naughty, Nicolo; but I am not. I only see it plainer than you or your father. God has given you this talent,--this great one,--and you shall not hide it, you shall not bury it." The little girl's face was so eager, that Nicolo smiled at her.

But she went on, more excitedly:--

"Get up this moment, Nicolo, and come in with me. We will play somewhat together. Your father never scolds you when I am by. And you shall not give up your music."

The boy, half in earnest, and half amused, let the child drag him into a little house near, put his violin into his arms, and then seat herself at the piano, while in the distance sat Nicolo's father, gloomily watching the pair.

"Begin," said Gianetta, "and tell me when I play wrongly."

But for such a mere child, Gianetta played with marvellous correctness. As for Nicolo, his countenance cleared with every sound that he drew from his beloved violin; he forgot his gloomy father; he thought no longer of his dull, sad home. He was wrapped in that wonderful content which the possession of some great talent gives.

With the last chord the brightness faded, however, out of his face.

"Take me home now," said the little girl.

Home was only across the street; but Gianetta wanted another word in private with her friend.

"Nicolo," she said, gravely, "never speak more of giving up the music; it is not to be. I am sorry for you, my poor boy; I know it is a hard life, but--"

"But I will make a name for myself at last," said Nicolo, catching her enthusiasm; "and then, perhaps, my father will have faith in me. Till then I will be brave, little one; so good night."

It _was_ a hard life for Nicolo--his mother dead, his father with no care for his son's one great passion--music. Many a time the boy's spirit failed, and he even grew to doubt his own powers under the cold glance and cruel taunts which daily met him.

He was sitting one day, feeling even sadder than usual,--discontented even with the sounds he drew from his instrument,--when Gianetta's mother stood in the doorway.

"The child is ill," she said, hurriedly--"very ill, and calls ever for you. Come."

So Nicolo went, and, though tossed with fever, his little friend smiled on him. There was, however, a longing look in her eyes; but her parched lips could not form a word.

"Is it the violin?" asked Nicolo, softly.

She smiled again, and Nicolo fetched his treasure.

"A sleeping song?" he questioned.

The little face grew calm and soft at his question. Sweetly the music floated through the room, stilling the little sufferer, and comforting the watchers. When he had finished, Gianetta stretched out her arms.

"Thank you, dear Nicolo," she said; "that was pleasant. Now I shall sleep; but _you_ must never sleep; you have much else to do; you must go out into the world, and be famous--go away far, far from here. Do you mind my words? Will you remember them?"

And she lay back exhausted on her pillow, never more to ask for music in this world. Gianetta was listening even then to the angels' song.

That night Nicolo sat beside the dead body of his little friend. Lights burned, flowers were scattered round her, and prayers were said without ceasing in all those long hours. It was the custom of the country; it did not disturb the dead, and it comforted the living.

And when morning dawned, the friendless boy went back to his little room across the road, and there he poured out his heart in a farewell strain to his dear companion who had thus suddenly been snatched from him.

There was no more now to be done but to fulfil her last command--to go out into the world, and to make himself famous.

Did he do so?

Ask those who love music, and hold dear all great names in its roll of fame, if they ever heard of Nicolo Paganini; for it is of his boyhood that I write.

How far he owed his success in life to a little girl, each reader may judge for himself. She certainly inspired him with courage when he was very down-hearted; and through all his brilliant career, I think he at least must always have remembered her with gratitude.

H. A. F.

A CHILD'S PETITION.

O thou above, From whose great love The world all good receives, Make me as bright With thy blessed light As a rose with all her leaves.

Wash me as clean From every sin, O pitiful, pitiful One; And make me shine With thy grace divine, Like a lily with the sun.

Take pride away, Dear Lord, I pray, And make me pure and true, That I may be fed On thy living bread, As the daisy is fed on the dew.

Help me still To do thy will Till life has passed away, And in the dark To sing like a lark At the golden gate of the day.

THE TRUANT.

"What's the matter with Neddy Oram?" I said as a noise outside drew me to the window, and I saw old Mrs. Oram dragging her grandson along the street. She looked angry and determined.

"He's played truant, I guess," answered my little girl as she came to my side. "He played truant last week, and Mr. Jonas made him stand on one foot ever so long a time. And when he got tired and put the other one down, he switched him on the leg. Oh dear! I don't want to go this morning. I wish Neddy wouldn't play truant, nor be bad in school! He's such a nice boy, and I can't bear to see him whipped. Mr. Jonas will cut him dreadfully, I know he will, for he said he'd take the skin off of him if ever he played truant again."

Neddy was a nice boy, as my little girl said. He was bright and active, kind-hearted and generous. I never saw him do a mean or selfish thing. But he had a free, rather reckless spirit and a will that was stubbornness itself when aroused. Kindness softened, but anger hardened, him.

Neddy's father and mother were both dead, and the boy lived with his grandmother, who was rather a hard woman, and believed more in the power of force than in the power of kindness.

As soon as I understood the case I put on my bonnet hastily and ran after Mrs. Oram, hoping to come up with her before she reached the school-room. I was a few moments too late for this, but in time to have a word with Mr. Jonas, who stood at the door holding the struggling boy firmly by the arm.

"I want you to promise me one thing," I said, laying my hand on the schoolmaster's. I spoke in as quiet a voice as I could assume, but very seriously. My words and manner threw Mr. Jonas off of his guard. His hold on the boy relaxed, and in the next instant Neddy was beyond his reach and running off as fast as his feet could carry him.

"After him!" cried the schoolmaster, greatly excited. "After him, John Wilkins!"

A large, coarse-looking boy started forward, and was about passing through the door, when I put my hand on him, and pressing him back said,

"Wait a moment, John. Maybe, after I've said a word to Mr. Jonas, he'll not want you to go. Tell him to wait, Mr. Jonas; do, now, because I want you."

I softened my voice to a persuasive tone, and so made my interference effectual. The schoolmaster told John Wilkins to go back to his seat.

Mrs. Oram had started after her troublesome grandson on the instant of his escape, and so I was left alone with the excited teacher.

"Now, don't be angry with me," said I, "nor tell me to go away and mind my own business. Two heads are sometimes better than one; and it's my opinion that if you and I put our heads together, we can save this poor boy from being ruined. There is a great deal of good in him, but as things go now I'm afraid it will be lost. With natures like his, 'love has readier will than fear.' His grandmother doesn't know how to manage him. Let us try to show her a better way."

By the time I had said this the thoughts of Mr. Jonas had become clearer and his anger against Neddy much abated. I saw this in his face.

"Let the boy go now," I added. "After school come and see me, and we'll have a long talk over the matter. But promise me one thing."

"What is that?" he asked.

"If old Mrs. Oram brings Neddy back to-day, don't punish him."

"Very well. It shall be as you say," answered the schoolmaster.

That evening Mr. Jonas called to see me. He was a better man, on the whole, than he was a schoolmaster. Out of school he was kind and genial, but as a teacher he was not always as wise and as patient as he should be. Like Neddy's grandmother, he believed more in the power of force than he did in the power of kindness. His rod was always in sight, and too often in his hand. He ruled by fear, and not by love.

"Did Neddy come back to school?" I asked.

Mr. Jonas shook his head gravely.

"Oh, mother," cried my little girl, rushing into the room just at this moment, "Neddy Oram's lost or run away!"

She stopped on seeing Mr. Jonas; her face, that had been a little pale, flushed deeply, and her eyes had an angry flash. "And it's all your fault!" she added, with a sudden brave indignation in her tiny voice as she turned on the schoolmaster and looked at him steadily.

"My fault!" said the schoolmaster, in a startled voice.

"Yes, sir. It's all your fault. If you hadn't made him stand on one leg until he was almost tired to death, and switched him when he put the other down, and if you hadn't said you'd cut the skin off of him, he wouldn't have run away."

And here little Carrie burst out crying, and buried her face, sobbing, in my lap.

"Brave talk for my timid little girl, Mr. Jonas," I said, in an undertone, "but all true, I'm afraid."

"What is true?" he asked, looking bewildered.

"All that Carrie has said. This way you have of flogging children does more harm than good. A man of your clear mind and kindly nature might surely find some better way to govern your scholars."

Mr. Jonas did not answer. There was a look of pained surprise on his face.

"Run away, lost!" he exclaimed, after a few moments, rising to his feet. His manner had become suddenly agitated. "Poor boy! I must see about this;" and he went out hastily.

When Neddy Oram, who was only ten years old, escaped from the schoolmaster, he went directly home and hid himself in the garret, behind some boxes and old furniture. He ran so much faster than his grandmother that she lost sight of him and did not see him go into the house. So no search was made for him in the garret. Like some poor hunted animal that had gained a place of safety, he crouched panting in his hiding-place, enjoying for a time a sweet sense of security. But Neddy could not long forget how small and weak and dependent he was. It was all very well to hide away from his grandmother, but how was he to get anything to eat?

"Run away!" said a voice that spoke inside of him, but so loud and clear that he almost started. "Run away!" repeated the voice. "Grandmother Oram will find you out up here and take you back to school, and Mr. Jonas will switch you half to death."

I wonder who it was that said this, or how a voice could speak inside of Neddy Oram? It was a bad spirit, I think, that wished to do him harm. We may often hear these bad spirits speaking in our thoughts and telling us to do naughty things. Good spirits speak in our thoughts as well as bad ones, and they tell us to do what is right, to be kind and generous and loving and true.

I am sorry to say that Neddy, who was not only angry with his grandmother and the schoolmaster, but on account of his wrong-doings and disobedience afraid of them, listened to this voice, and as he listened the bad spirit made the voice seem so like his own thoughts that he knew not but that all came from himself.